I freeze. “What?”
He strums his fingers on the back of my chair and focuses on something over my shoulder, avoiding eye contact. Which is probably for the best, because there are only about ten inches separating us, and I’m all too aware of the warm length of his arm along my shoulders, the way his big knee presses into the outside of my thigh.
“You heard me.”
“And that’s…a problem?” The Crosbie I know—thought I knew—wouldn’t have cared why he was getting the attention, as long as he was getting it.
His nostrils flare slightly as he exhales. “I wasn’t complaining about it last year. I met a lot of girls I wouldn’t have met otherwise. But this year…the girls Kellan attracts just don’t do it for me.”
I recoil, stung. “I see.” My chest suddenly feels tight and I blink to clear my vision.
“I didn’t mean—”
The change room door bangs open to reveal Kellan propped against the cheap plywood wall, hands tucked into his pockets, one foot crossed over the other at the ankle. He’s wearing a navy suit with a red and white striped tie, shiny loafers, and a pair of black-framed glasses. He looks more like a fashion model than a journalist, but who’s complaining?
“Thoughts?” he asks, strutting out of the stall and taking ten steps down the nearest aisle before executing an exaggerated turn and strolling back. He poses, jutting out his jaw, then tipping down the glasses to fix me with a laughably intense stare.
I snicker, my hurt feelings subsiding for just a second. “Very nice.”
He studies the price tags stapled to the jacket sleeve and the tie. “All for a grand total of…twenty-two dollars.”
“You make it look like an even forty.”
He winks at me. “I know.” Then he turns to Crosbie, who’s looking more than a little uneasy. “Don’t tell me I look fat, bro. This is navy. You said it was slimming.”
Crosbie clears his throat. “Ten out of ten. Good call with the tie.”
Kellan fingers it thoughtfully. “I like it.” He disappears back into the change room and I stand.
“Nora,” Crosbie says.
“Good night.” I hang the jeans on the closest rack, no longer interested in playing dress up or any other games. The burning humiliation I’d felt at his words is welling right back up, threatening to bubble over. I just want to go home.
“Nora.” He follows me down an aisle of children’s clothes, fingers folding around the hem of my coat. “Would you stop?”
“No,” I say, even as I stop. “Fuck off. I was just being nice—”
“I didn’t mean you,” he interrupts. “You’re not the kind of girl he likes—”
“Oh, Jesus Christ.” I yank my coat out of his grasp. “I mean it, Crosbie. Shut up.”
“Come on. You know what I meant.”
“No,” I bite out. “Obviously I don’t.”
“He likes you,” he says, running a hand over the side of his face, frazzled. “And so do I. You know I do.”
I glance away, more angry than I should be. No, not angry. Sad. Because I missed Crosbie, for reasons I don’t want to dwell on, and he hurt my feelings.
“Come on,” he says again. “Thelma is super hot. I want to see you in those jeans. Don’t go home empty handed.”
I scowl. “If you noticed me at a party, it would be the first time.”
“What? There will be a lot of people, but—” He shakes his head. “Fine, I’ll set a trap. I’ll put family photos on the wall and wait until you approach.”
“I don’t want to see your photos.”
“And I’ll buy all the best chips.”
I blow out a breath. “I have to go, Crosbie.”
He shuffles closer. “Wait until Kellan’s ready and I’ll drive you back.”
“I rode my bike.” I turn to go.
“I’m sorry I hurt your feelings.”
The words make me pause. Maybe it’s just because he’s had a lot of experience issuing apologies, but he’s good at this. I’m already calming down and starting to feel a little embarrassed by my reaction. “Maybe I overreacted,” I mutter.
He nudges my foot with his. “Yeah, you’re a fucking psychopath.”
I meet his eye. “I live with Kellan, Crosbie. I don’t need to be nice to you to get close to him.”
He frowns. “I know.”
I watch him for a moment. “I really don’t think you do.”
chapter ten
At eight o’clock on Halloween night, I’m sitting on one of the stools at the breakfast bar in my Thelma get-up, a half-finished bottle of beer in one hand as the other hovers over my phone, ready to type a furious “How dare you do this, Louise!” message to Marcela.
“Hey,” Kellan says, coming out of his room.
“Hey,” I mutter, too disappointed and frustrated to manage many more words than that. I’m reading Marcela’s text— “Sorry, babe, but I’m dying—like for real dying, vomit everywhere dying—and I cannot be your Louise tonight. Find Brad Pitt and bang his brains out for me”—and trying not to cry.